


Not Man Big

by PinkAries



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Sick Dean, jack trying his best, no set time in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 15:41:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17470358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkAries/pseuds/PinkAries
Summary: Dean finds himself horribly ill and is left in the care of Jack, whose confidence in treating a cold is matched by his fumbling at treating a cold.





	Not Man Big

**Author's Note:**

> In which Jack's official tagline from now on is "I try my best."
> 
> I wrote this a lot better than my actual ongoing SPN fanfiction and it's making me mad at my muse.
> 
> Hope you enjoy anyway!

“Dean, you’re a mess--there’s no way.”  
  
“Piss off, I’m going.”   
  
“Well, I can’t exactly piss off I’m going, too--”   
  
Dean glared daggers through the sass. Sam cleared his throat. “Look, Cas and I will handle it. You need to stay here and let the medicine do its thing.”   
  
“Pft. _Rest_ . Rest is for the _weak._ ”   
  
“Really. That’s the best argument you can come up with.”

Castiel was leaning against the wall with his arms folded, and got in on this growing argument, which clearly, had only one set answer, no matter how hard Dean fought them. “I imagine a hundred and two fever typically inhibits one’s logical reasoning.”  
  
“I’ll take your logical reasoning and stick it up your--”  
  
“ _Dean_ ,”  
  
Dean turned to his brother, whose face was shrouded in worry. It wasn’t often that Dean Winchester got sick, and less likely this sick. Sweat glistened about every inch of his exposed skin, and his face was pale as a sheet. The bed he stood in front of was one he should have been laying down in, specifically with his visible shaking, but to no avail, nothing. Instead, he let his brother talk.  
  
“That last witch weakened Cas, so he can’t heal you, and we need to go on this hunt. I know you hate staying put, but we need you able.”  
  
Sammy was set in his ways. He knew he couldn’t tell Dean what to do, and he wouldn’t order Dean around. It just wasn’t in him to do that, even if it was reversed with Dean making decisions for Sam. But Sam did what he knew he could, which was talk him down, convince him, and one final move that, due to Dean Winchester’s ego, wouldn’t admit actually worked.  
  
Sam gave him his signature, pleading expression. Those earnest eyes that pierced through guarded rock and stone.  
  
“Please?”  
  
Dean closed his lids, feeling his breath catch. He hated that. He hated the dumb puppy dog look Sam naturally had. He soon after exhaled, rubbing his temples with his thumb and forefinger.  
  
“Alright, already. You’re right.”  
  
“Good.” Sam felt relief. Castiel came walking over, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder and making him sit down on the mattress.  
  
“We’ll be back, Dean.”  
  
“You both better be checking in. Regularly.”  
  
Sam laughed, mostly in disbelief, “we should be telling _you_ that.”  
  
Knock, knock. All eyes whirled to Dean’s doorway. Jack Kline stood in it before entering after being acknowledged.  
  
“You guys leaving?”  
  
“Yes, Jack,” Castiel walked to the nephilim, placing a hand on his shoulder and looking into his eyes, “while Sam and I are gone, we need you to take care of Dean.”  
  
The one in question scoffed across the room, “what am I, _his_ age? I’m a grown man, I don’t need no babysitter.”  
  
“Dean, ten minutes ago you fell asleep in your pie.” Sam rebutted. “ _Pie._ ”  
  
Castiel added, “yes and fifteen minutes before that we found you passed out on the floor covered in the beer you spilled.”

Dean rolled his eyes, feeling personally attacked--but mostly because he had no counterarguments.

“That being said, no pie. Or flan, or cake, or _any type_ of sugary carbohydrates--”   
  
Dean looked offended.   
  
“--and _definitely_ no alcohol. Water, protein and toast. That's it.”   
  
That offense turned to disgust. “ _How dare you._ ”   
  
“Jack, make sure he sleeps. Change out a cold washcloth for his head, and make sure he takes Tylenol and NyQuil. Read the directions, and whatever you do, _do not let him near the pantry._ ”   
  
Dean mocked Castiel quietly in exaggerated expressions. Sam only shook his head at the defiant, immature performance.

Jack took the bottles of Tylenol and aspirin from Castiel and smiled confidently to them. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure Dean gets better quick.”  
  
“Good. Call us if his condition gets worse.”   
  
Sam gripped Dean’s shoulder. Dean glanced up, then grabbed Sam’s hand with his own. He spoke up, strong and sturdy.   
  
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me and go.” He looked up at Sam, his mode of a strong, big brother flipped on. After all, it was his job to keep Sam secure. “You got this.”   
  
Sam nodded, then out with Cas he left, leaving just the two. Dean and his basically son. Dean wiped the sweat on his forehead with his shirt.   
  
“Do you even know how treat a cold?”   
  
“I read a book on it once.”   
  
Great. Cool. This should be fun.   
  
_This should be a lot of fun._

* * *

After a few hours of deep sleep, Dean stirred to a cold sensation, gently laid across his forehead. He groaned, eyelashes fluttering to the real world. Jack gazed down at him, sitting at the edge of his bed. Beside him on the end table was a basin filled with fresh ice water.  
  
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Just changing this.”   
  
And also the wafting smell of… chicken? Barely noticeable, almost a bland smell. But there was definitely something warm steaming not too far.   
  
“I also made you soup, but it’s alright if you’re too tired. I’ll just reheat it later.”   
  
“No,” Dean sat himself up. Now that he was awake, his stomach had been grumbling a bit, even if a couple of hours earlier it was doing the opposite. Beer probably didn’t help. Or pie.   
  
But he’d never admit that to anyone. Not ever.   
  
“I’m awake.” He looked to Jack, then put his hand out. Jack handed the bowl to Dean, not able to help the excited grin washed over his face as it passed along. Dean looked down at it. Freshly cut chicken and veggies stirred in broth, and also nice and hot.   
  
“You make this yourself?”   
  
“I found a cookbook.”   
  
“Huh. Guess the Men of Letters gotta’ eat. Well, chow time.”

In the first bite went. At first, he didn’t have an opinion. It tasted bland, actually, like the smell. But the longer it went back and forth across his taste buds the worse the taste transformed. Actually, did he salt it at all? Was it the Men of Letters’ fault? Anyway, it wasn’t going down his throat any time soon.  
  
And soon needed to happen with Jack’s expecting stare planted on Dean.

“Is it okay?”  
  
Dean buckled down and swallowed, staring into the seemingly normal bowl of food. “It’s… it’s something.”   
  
Jack sat back in his chair. “... Oh.”   
  
“Look, it was your first time. Some people gotta’ practice when it comes to cooking.”   
  
“I can get you something else, then.”   
  
“ _Please_ \--I mean, thank you.”   
  
Jack looked up in thought, then back down, his signature smile full of brimming innocence returning to his face. “For now I’ll go to the store. Get it canned.”   
  
Jack was already getting up without letting Dean respond, who reached his hand out, but unable to move the rest of him from how much he ached and how exhausted he was. Curse this. Curse all of this.   
  
“Wait, wait, wait. With what car? And you ain’t walking there.”   
  
“I’ll take the Impala.”   
  
“ _Haha, uh_ , no way. Baby’s out of the question.”   
  
“You let me drive it before.”   
  
“That was a special case, okay. And I was with you. Big difference.”   
  
Jack suddenly reached into his pocket, pulling out a phone. The two locked eyes, and Jack quickly retrieved Dean’s car keys from his dresser.   
  
“Hey, _hey_ !”   
  
“I’ll tell Cas and Sam.”   
  
Dean scoffed, “yeah, tell them _what_ ?”   
  
“That…” Jack thought for a moment, “that you’re not eating.”   
  
“What are you, five?” Dean stopped, realizing what he had just said.   
  
“Technically I’m one year, two-hundred forty-seven days and--”   
  
“Yeah, yeah, spare me, what do you think they’re gonna’ do? Cas’ wings are broken and Sam ain’t goin’ to turn around just to make sure I eat.”   
  
“Then… I’ll call Mary. Tell her you’re really sick and that she needs to come quickly.”   
  
Dean was taken aback by the threat. Jack shook the phone in a taunt, and Dean shook his head.   
  
“You son of a--” he stopped, “well, actually your mother was a very nice lady.”   
  
“I’ll be back.”   
  
“Hold on--”   
  
Jack dangled the keys before closing Dean’s bedroom door. Dean had no choice but to fall back on his bed, in anxiety, and wondering where Jack learned to negotiate like that.   
  
“All three of you are a pain my ass…”   
  
He threw the blanket back over himself.

* * *

  
It was long before Jack returned, opened the can and made a fresh bowl of the soup he bought. He stirred it with internal excitement, then glanced over at his pot of experimental soup. He went over, staring a bit defeated, but took it and dumped it into the sink. It was okay. It was his first time, after all, so there was no need to be upset.   
  
He’d just have to do twice as better next time. If there were another call for him to cook.

He poured the new soup into a fresh bowl with a fresh spoon, going to Dean’s door and knocking before he entered.  
  
“Dean, I’m back--”   
  
He was coughing uncontrollably, arms wrapped tight around his abdomen as the shaking had progressed. Trails of vomit leaked from Dean’s mouth onto an accumulating puddle across the tiles. Jack placed the bowl down on the dresser and rushed over, panicking.   
  
“Dean? Dean, are you--”   
  
His hand felt Dean’s face. Burning up.   
  
“Okay, okay,” Jack wrapped his arms around Dean, hauling him to sit up propped against some pillows, making sure he was sturdy enough for his coughing. “Dean, you have to hold it back. Just for a minute.”   
  
Jack almost threw the thermometer before getting it to Dean’s mouth. While it did its thing, he reached for the washcloth and dunked it in the basic, accidentally knocking it and all the water onto the floor. He shook himself out of the mistake and went back to Dean, placing the cold cloth over his head.   
  
_Beep, beep !_   
  
“Okay.” Jack took the thermometer. One-hundred and three-point nine. Jack started to panic, looking around before grabbing Dean’s blankets and pulling them from him--even if the man was completely freezing. Warming him further wouldn’t help anything. He rushed to grab the Tylenol and aspirin, looking for the directions as quickly as he could as he ran out to get Dean a glass of water.   
  
Jack spilled plenty of pills on the floor trying to layer them on his palm, grabbing the glass of water and running back. He knelt by Dean’s side.   
  
“H-Here, take these, take…”   
  
Dean grabbed the water and the pills, downing them all. He inhaled for a moment, lifting his palm to Jack.   
  
“I’m okay. Calm down.”   
  
“B-but, you…”   
  
“It was just a fit. I’m fine now. Took the meds; fever will go back down like before.”   
  
“Dean, it’s near a hundred and four.”   
  
“I’ll handle it.”   
  
That stung Jack a little, who sat back on his legs as she spaced off. Dean noticed the sudden change in demeanor. He looked ahead of him and saw the bowl Jack abandoned earlier.   
  
“I’ll… clean this mess up.”   
  
“Wait,” Dean pointed to the food as Jack was getting up, “is that my soup?”   
  
“Oh--yes.”   
  
“Bring it over here.”   
  
“Dean, you were vomiting just two seconds ago. I have to mop the floor.”   
  
“Not before you bring me that bowl of soup. I just popped pills. Can’t do that on an empty stomach, can we?”   
  
Jack pulled on his sleeve in nervousness, but nodded, doing as he was instructed and handing Dean the bowl.   
  
“Alright, well… I’ll be back.”   
  
Dean was left once again. He waited for Jack’s footsteps to sound far enough for him to cough safely in his arm. He stared down at the soup. His stomach was screaming no at the top of its lungs, but Dean barely cared. Eating would probably do him better no matter what, and it would definitely lift Jack’s morale.   
  
“Come on, you little bitch, choke it down.” He devoured a heaping spoonful, not giving himself a chance to taste. May as well have eaten Jack’s homemade soup instead.

* * *

 

After Jack had cleaned everything up, he set a garbage pail by Dean, who insisted he was find and there was no need. Even so the next couple of hours trying to sleep had been Dean going back and forth with his nausea.  
  
Why did you lie about me, Dean?  
  
It was like his body came back for karma backlash, but he’d rather Jack feel at least a little at ease due to the scare. In other news, his fever went back down, so that was a great thing. It was honestly so rare for Dean, a hulk, to catch something, and in turn get really sick in the process.  
  
All that fighting would knock him out cold for a longer chunk of time than prior naps. Like a mountain of bricks collapsing on him, then slowly falling off, piece by piece.  
  
And when he stirred the next time, due to the amount he was sweating, Dean wiped his face and looked at his watch. He whistled to himself, having k.oed for a whopping seven hours. A hand went through his hair as he tried to process this whole being under the weather thing. Much different than a hangover. At least he knew how to deal with a hangover.

The visage of something across the room made him double-take. Sitting in a chair with an open book in his lap was Jack, sleeping soundly. He had about five other books pile by his feet, and still he was, all except for the steady rise and fall of his chest.  
  
Dean would’ve called out to him, but he couldn’t help but be curious. How long had Jack been sitting there? Watching over him? He climbed out from under the covers and went over, glancing at the open pages.   
  
The chapter title tagged at the top read “Why Fevers Happen.” It was then Dean’s eyes realized all the other books were on physical sickness and human health. All of the attention and care Jack took, well… Dean hope he wouldn’t accidentally pass it on to the boy.

Dean bothered to take the thermometer beside Jack and take his own temperature, since he was feeling hot instead of below freezing, which happened to be a nice change. When it beeped, it was at a good level of ninety-eight. Whatever happened must’ve broke.  
  
Yeah, it did.   
  
That’s what it got for trying to screw with _Dean Frikkin’ Winchester_ .   
  
He smiled triumphantly. He must have broken a record for shortest time being sick. Now he just had another thing to brag over Sam’s tall Sasquatch head.

And another thing to praise Jack for. Jack needed as many praises as he could get. As many pieces of evidence that he’s done more good than bad. He smiled down at the sleeping boy.  
  
Dean gently removed the book from Jack’s lap and grabbed one of his coats, putting it over the nephilim’s front.   
  
“Your mother wasn’t wrong, Jack. You are great, really. Realize that soon, okay?”   
  
He pat the seat arm, then walked out of the room.

Out went the lights.


End file.
